


talk to me (help me feel)

by r0uen



Category: Dangan Ronpa - All Media Types, New Dangan Ronpa V3: Everyone's New Semester of Killing
Genre: Amami Rantaro-centric, Angst, Anxiety Attacks, Depersonalization, Derealization, Disassociation, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Mental Health Issues, vent fic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-07-03
Updated: 2020-07-03
Packaged: 2021-03-04 21:01:18
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,437
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25042834
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/r0uen/pseuds/r0uen
Summary: He doesn't feel real. This body isn't his.(a character study/vent fic about disassociation and the impact of the killing games)
Relationships: Amami Rantaro & Saihara Shuichi, Amami Rantaro/Saihara Shuichi
Comments: 2
Kudos: 94





	talk to me (help me feel)

**Author's Note:**

> amasai brainrot !!!!!!  
> i wrote this cuz i'm disassociating BAD rn and i just want shu to cuddle me plz

His hands are shaking, his hands are shaking and he doesn't know why and they won't stop. 

He can feel each tremor running up his arm, and they shake as he puts away the guitar he was absently strumming, and it clatters angrily against the wooden floor. He can feel the floor beneath his feet, but is it really there? He can't tell, he doesn't know. He can't feel anything but the shake of his hands and the too-fast thrumming of his heart. 

He should be hot, he vaguely remembers, he should be hot since he's wearing jeans and a long-sleeve shirt in the middle of summer. But the heat must have gotten lost on his skin since there's nothing there. 

He runs a hand (still shaking) through long green hair. Is it fake? His hair has to be fake. It isn't his, he knows that, it must be a wig or something. But he can't remember. Has he always has green hair? He doesn't know. 

But it's fake, it has to be fake, it isn't his, he refuses to believe it is. 

He walks to the bathroom, and the air feels thick and heavy, like he's walking through too-sweet molasses. His steps are slow and small and careful, and the floor is beneath his feet but he feels like it isn't. When he reaches the bathroom, the tiles are cool but not really and he feels like this skin, this body that isn't his, has been wrapped in plastic to the point where all of his senses are dulled. Maybe they plastic wrapped his brain and his heart too. 

He turns to face the mirror, and stares. 

Wide green eyes stare back. They look scared, distant, apprehensive, and he doesn't know who's looking back at him. This mirror isn't really a mirror, he figures, it has to be fake. This isn't him. He doesn't know what he looks like (does he even exist?) but it isn't this. 

He lifts a hand to his face, observes the tan skin. Watches his "reflection" do the same. He leans closer, observing the pores on the face and wavy green hair and black-painted fingernails and neatly trimmed eyebrows and long, long eyelashes and high cheekbones and a sharp jaw and he doesn't know who he's looking back. It isn't him, it isn't, it can't be-

He doesn't know what he looks like but he isn't this. He shouldn't be in this body. 

How does he get out? 

He feels so numb, so empty, like a body with all traces of humanity scraped out from the insides, like a hollow sack of skin without a home. It's terrifying, and he scraches at the arms. He isn't real, this isn't real, why is it all fake, why is this happening?

What time is it? It doesn't really matter, but time is supposed to be steady and constant and real when he feels like the opposite. There's a clock in the bedroom, he thinks, and he stumbles inside on feet that aren't his and looks around, tries to focus on the noise and the colors and the textures surrounding him, pushing on him, and he feels so fake. The world is fake and he's just an empty husk inside of it, and he falls to his knees as it all becomes too much. The silence is so loud and he can hear his heartbeat and the twitches of his fingers and the thrum of blood flowing through his veins and the strangled inhale he's trying to take. But the air is molasses, too thick to breathe it, and it's clogging his fake senses and he's falling, falling (to where? does it matter?) and there's footsteps outside and he feels too many eyes watching as he tries desperately to breathe, to keep the not-his-body alive, and then a hand is on his shoulder and he _snaps._

He inhales somehow, shakily, and his throat burns with stress and air and hurting. 

"Rantaro?" 

Rantaro. He thinks that's his name but he can't remember exactly. Everything is far away and blurry and the face, the face belonging to the hand on his shoulder. He recognizes it. 

He knows who it is, why can't he remember? Looking at the other makes him feel warm and fluttery inside but he can't remember the name, and he grasps aimlessly until it comes out. 

"Shuichi?" 

The voice is cracked and low and soft, and it might be his own. He isn't sure but it sounds familiar. 

"Hey. Hey, I'm right here." He tries to focus, stares at the golden eyes in front of him. Shuichi's eyes are beautiful, soft and pretty with long, dark lashes and the tiniest hint of eyeliner around his waterline. The black contrasts nicely with pale skin. "Are you okay?" 

That's a loaded question that Rantaro doesn't want to answer. So he doesn't, simply studying Shuichi's eyes. 

"I'll take that as a no, then." 

He tries to remember more about Shuichi. He's very pretty, clearly, kind, sweet, shy sometimes, slightly obsessive. He's a detective. Shuichi's his.... boyfriend? Yes. That's right. Shuichi Saihara is his boyfriend. They've been dating for a year now. They met a while ago, but he can't remember where. 

That scares him. Why can't he remember where he met his boyfriend? 

He grips the sheets under his fingers, scared he might somehow float away. "Shuichi." 

"Yes?" 

"Where did we meet? I can't-" he balls his fists in frustration- "I can't remember." 

Shuichi's frowns then, and Rantaro misses the more calm look he used to wear. His eyes cloud over and he runs a hand through long blue hair. "It's good that you don't remember. I don't really know what triggered this, but it's best if you don't remember that right now." 

Rantaro wants to protest, wants to ask where they met. He feels like it's important, but why?

But then he remembers. He trusts Shuichi. Shuichi is his boyfriend, his smart and protective boyfriend. There must be a reason he doesn't remember right now. 

But something else sticks out in what he says. "What do you mean 'triggered this'?" 

Shuichi grabs his hand. It's soft and clammy and cool, and Rantaro grips his hand tightly. Shuichi is his lifeline right now. He can't let go. "You're having a dissociative episode right now, Rantaro. Your therapist says they always have a trigger, but I'm not sure what it was." 

He was disassociating. It makes sense, considering how surreal he still feels. The world is a little too bright, but it's thankfully coming back into focus. He doesn't feel real, not yet, but Shuichi is real, and that's all he needs right now. 

But he's angry, angry at himself for not figuring it out sooner, angry at the world for making him break down like this. He's real. Why doesn't he feel that way?

"Why... why couldn't I figure that out myself?" 

Shuichi looks troubled. "I'm not sure. Normally your episodes aren't like this. This has been the worst one in a long time. Do you want to lie down?" Shuichi's voice is steady and it becomes another anchor for Rantaro. 

He realizes how exhausted he is- the legs (his legs, he reminds himself. This body is his) are exhausted and his arms feel heavy. "Yeah, please. I'm tired, Shu." He moves to lay down, still clinging onto Shuichi's hand. His boyfriend starts to stand up and he lets out a whine of protest. "You can't leave, I need you, please I don't wanna-" 

"Rantaro. I'm not leaving. I just am going to get that glass of water on the table over there, okay?" His gaze is soft and Rantaro wants to trust him but he can't let him go. He doesn't want to float away. 

"Trust me, please." He squeezes Rantaro's hand, and Rantaro reluctantly lets him go. Shuichi moves quick, maintaining eye contact with his boyfriend. He grabs the glass and returns to the bed, sliding in on the other side of it. Rantaro immediately grips his hand again, and Shuichi's thumb draws little circles onto the back of it. 

"It's okay, Taro. You're real. I'm real. I'm right here with you." 

Rantaro buries his head into Shuichi's shoulder, letting his boyfriend hold him as he curls up. He feels warm and loved and whole and real (mostly). 

"I love you," he breathes out, and Shuichi kisses his forehead. 

"I love you too. Always." 

He hears Shuichi murmuring praises in his ear as he slowly drifts into sleep, and it's hard not to feel real with such a solid, real boy wrapped around him. 

**Author's Note:**

> if y'all were wondering, taro's disassociating was triggered by him messing around on the guitar. he was paying random stuff and accidentally played the first few notes of the song that plays during chapter 1 of v3, during the last hour of the window where monokuma was like "if a murder happens in this time limit i won't kill you all"


End file.
